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A chuckle escapes me as I’m hauled up to my feet.
“What the fuck is so funny?” an agent asks.
“I just thought of something nice,” I murmur, my tone calm as if I didn’t just hand myself over to the FBI, all so I can take out the head of the Bratva.
I have to make a deal so I can disappear once and for all from this fucked-up world.
Chapter 2
Owen Casey
Present time . . . Owen Casey, 35. Annie Collins, 26.
The past three years sucked the last of my soul from my body.
Who knew helping the FBI would be so fucking boring? Once the dust settled after I handed myself over to law enforcement, I was locked up in a secure facility.
Most of my time was spent sleeping while waiting for tediously long meetings with agents.
Once the deal was made for my freedom, which included a new identity, I handed over Bastien Tarasov, Andrei Nikitin, and Iosef Nikitin on a silver platter. After that, things got difficult. They dissected every job I’ve ever done for the Bratva, so I was forced to relive the hits I’ve carried out. I thought my conscience had died over the years, but those interviews proved the opposite. Every death has left a stain on my soul that can never be removed.
But as long as I kept singing, I was the FBI’s favorite asset. The instant my part was done, Marshal Laufer gave me my new identity, and I was secretly moved to Portland.
Pushing the door of my new apartment open, I listen to all the unfamiliar sounds in the building.
The secure facility had a rhythm to it. People rushing around, typing on keyboards, phones ringing. It actually became relaxing white noise after a while.
I glance around the living room at the two worn couches, a small coffee table, and an empty TV cabinet. The stale smell in the air grabs my attention while I glance through the rest of the one-bedroom apartment. It’s not much, but it will do.
Dropping my duffel bag on one of the brown couches, I unzip it and begin to remove the security devices. I get to work, putting up small magnetic contact alarms on the door and all the windows. If someone tries to break in, they will sound an alarm, giving me precious time to react.
I set up compact PIR motion detectors in the living room and hallway, just in case someone makes it past my first line of defense.
Three of the five battery-powered cameras go in the living room, the landing outside my front door, and the narrow stairwell.
The heads-up that the devices provide me is all I need. I know the Bratva is looking for me, and they won’t stop until I’m dead.
I had to give the FBI all my aliases, safe houses, and bank accounts. All but one. If shit goes sideways, and this law-abiding citizen thing doesn’t work out, it’s my final escape plan.
Walking to the window behind one of the couches, I look down at the street below. The building consists of a bar on the entire ground floor and four apartments situated above it. The same man owns everything. Miles Davis.
When I received the keys to my new place, I picked up that he had some kind of military or law enforcement background. My guess is that Davis retired and opened the bar to keep himself busy.
The marshals who arranged everything handed me my new identity, a legal lease, and a job as a bartender that will leave a clean trail behind me. Monthly pay. Taxes.
I’m no longer Rowan Teller, but for the first time in a really long while, there’s proof that I exist.
I’m not just a shadow moving through the dark and eliminating whoever’s pissed off Bastien.
“Owen Casey.” The name sounds foreign, so I keep saying it while I watch the people on the sidewalks.
A woman runs across the street, drawing my attention. I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women in my lifetime, but there’s something otherworldly about her that keeps my eyes locked on her.
Without meaning to, I memorize everything about her. Shoulder-length red hair that’s tangled. Glasses that slip down the bridge of her nose before she quickly shoves them back into place. Freckles.
She’s holding keys between her fingers as if she intends to stab someone with them, and she’s also clutching her handbag strap.
The woman heads to the side staircase the tenants use and disappears from my line of sight.
